Miss Prestwick's Crusade (7 page)

Helen paused, bending a brittle smile on the assemblage.

"Never heard of the feller."

Helen swung about in surprise to gaze at Mr. Welladay.

"Know a little something about art, m'self,” he grunted. “Fancy I would have heard of a well-known English art expert in Portugal."

"Ah,” responded Helen, momentarily disconcerted. “Well, I am acquainted with a number of dealers in London. I suppose—"

"Ever heard of Gerard?” snapped Mr. Welladay.

"Why, yes, as a matter of fact I have corresponded with Thomas Gerard off and on for some five years. I am rather looking forward to meeting him in person during my sojourn in England."

Uncle Stamford muttered something unintelligible but said nothing further.

Helen, looked at him oddly but continued her discourse to the group at large.

"At any rate, as might be expected, neither his family nor that of my mother displayed the slightest enthusiasm for this program, and rather than embarrass them or cause any more friction, he moved his little family to the continent. He had friends there, influential in the art world, who promised him assistance in his budding career. He struggled for awhile, but in a surprisingly short time, he became highly successful as an art dealer, restorer and historian.

"Unfortunately, my mother passed away at Beatrice's birth. That was in ‘88. I was six at that time and became, perforce, the lady of the household. Our housekeeper was extremely able, and she took it upon herself to teach me the rudiments of the job. By the time I was fifteen, I was running our little establishment on my own."

The response of the females around the table was a blank stare.

"How extraordinary,” murmured the dowager. “Had you no, er, female to provide counsel and advice as you grew to womanhood?"

Helen gestured toward her companion. “I had Barney,” she said simply. As Miss Barnstaple blushed under the scrutiny, Helen continued. “She was the daughter of a neighboring squire, and she came to Portugal with my mother to act as her companion. When Mama passed away, she took on the daunting task of instilling propriety in my sister and me as we grew. We owe her everything, and she is my best friend.” She smiled at Miss Barnstaple, who was by now in a silent paroxysm of embarrassment.

Helen paused. She had determined before entering Whitehouse Abbey that she would make no effort to hide her activities in Portugal—well, most of them at any rate. Now she had come to the sticking point. She drew a fortifying breath. “In fact,” she continued brightly, “during this same time, I became interested in Papa's profession. He took me tinder his wing and taught me all he knew about art, with the result that he gradually allowed me to help him. For the last ten years,” she concluded in a belligerent rush, “I have been an integral part of his business, assisting him in appraisals and restorations and dealing with customers—of whom, I might add, we list some of the most notable families in Europe."

The time the silence that greeted her declaration roared in her ears. From his side of the table, Stanford Welladay harrumphed in what sounded like derision. At length, Mr. Beresford cleared his throat. “Your work sounds fascinating, Miss Prestwick."

Edward cursed himself. Could he possibly have sounded more fatuous? “Um, you pointed out the, um, Brunwald that we passed on the stairway . . ."

"Grunewald. Yes.” Miss Prestwick smiled encouragingly. “And an Appiani, I believe. I should enjoy the opportunity to view all of your grandfather's collection."

At this point, Uncle Stamford apparently swallowed a gulp of wine the wrong way, for he choked abruptly and spent the next several minutes in a violent coughing fit. When his sister had ministered to him at some length, assuring his continued presence among the living, Edward went on.

"Mm, I think that would be an excellent idea, although there may be some difficulty."

Miss Prestwick raised delicate brows.

"You see, I'm not precisely sure which of our objets d'art are from his collection, because—well, actually, our artworks have never been cataloged."

This time Miss Prestwick's brows flew into her hairline.

"Not cataloged? None of them? Never? But that—that's extraordinary!"

Edward grinned ruefully, enjoying the play of expression on her mobile features. “Well, I can't say that we don't know what any of them are, of course. We have bills of sale, going back centuries, and the identities of most of our paintings and sculptures have been known to us from the time of their purchase—much of it is included in the entailment documents, but as far as a systematized listing of the items and an approximate evaluation—particularly of the hundreds of pieces scooped in by my grandfather, I'm afraid my family has been extremely lax. In addition, some damage has occurred over the years. A few chips here and there, cracking, and so on."

"I see.” Miss Prestwick bit her lip in what Edward perceived as a wholly delightful manner. “Perhaps you would like me to look them over while I'm here."

Ignoring the muffled sound that once more emanated from his uncle, Edward knew a surge of excitement. He grinned widely. “Yes, indeed, Miss Prestwick, if you would be so kind, I would be delighted if you would look at everything in the place. Evaluate everything in sight. Take all the time you wish—years, if necessary. You will, of course, be properly remunerated.” He knew he was babbling, but he couldn't seem to stop himself. Down the table, he observed Stamford's continued expressions of consternation. He smiled inwardly. He could almost see the gentleman's nose swinging out of joint. Still—Well, yes, perhaps it was unwise of him to make this woman—this possible adventuress—a virtual gift of his home, and he knew he should ignore the bond that had seemed to leap between them at their first meeting. He had looked into those crystalline eyes, and now a clarion bellow within him insisted that Helen Prestwick was as true as the day is long. No charlatan she! But he was beyond rational thought at the moment. The best he could come up with was a whisper of probability that William was Chris's son in fact. If Chris had married the child's mother, well, surely it was understandable Helen would try to assure the child's place in the world.

He shook himself but was entirely unsuccessful in emerging from this fit of rationalization. All he knew was that the prospect of installing this enchanting stranger in his house for an indefinite period of time in a position that would require close consultation with her at odd moments of the day and night filled him with an aching delight.

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For a long moment, Helen could only stare at Mr. Beresford. What was the matter with the man? He appeared to have fallen into a most peculiar distraction. Was he actually offering her the opportunity to catalog the treasures of this stately home? Her heart fairly skipped in anticipation—before lurching in apprehension. Why was he doing this? He had even spoken of remuneration. What could his motive possibly be? For he must certainly have one—an ulterior one, that is. It was perfectly understandable that he would wish to have his collection cataloged, but it would be a monumental task. Why entrust it to a total stranger—of whose expertise he knew nothing? A stranger, moreover, who posed a threat to his position? Did he see some way in all this to control her somehow? He already had the upper hand in this situation. With an effort, she snatched up the rambling threads of her perturbation. She would take his request at face value—for the moment.

"That would be wonderful! That is,” she concluded primly, “I would be most pleased to conduct an appraisal and a cataloging as well—at no charge, of course. I am your guest, my lo—Mr. Beresford.” It wrenched her heart to spurn a lucrative commission at this time when she badly needed money. However, she thought, brightening, her work at Whitehouse Abbey might well lead to a series of equally profitable assignments. In addition, working with such a large number of artworks would keep her busy while she waited for Mr. Beresford to finish his investigation of William's claim. Perhaps, she added to herself, that gentleman would not be in such a hurry to make a slapdash hugger-mugger job of it with herself in situ for months, even though he must, she reminded herself, be longing to be rid of her and her bothersome demand.

"Good!” exclaimed Mr. Beresford in evident delight. “As for remuneration, I must insist—however, we can discuss that later."

He turned to beam on the rest of the family. “Is this not a wonderful thing? I have been wishing to get the matter of grandfather's artworks sorted out ever since my arrival here but have been at a loss as to how to go about it."

Helen's gaze swept around the table. Hm. The members of Mr. Beresford's family were having little difficulty in containing their gratification at this turn of events. Mr.— what was his name? Welladay?—in particular, looked as though he had just swallowed something large and sour.

"But, I say!” he exploded after a series of gurgled splutterings. “What about me? What about my own efforts in that direction?"

"Oh, Lord!” Edward castigated himself. He had forgotten all about Uncle Stanford's abortive attempts to sort out the Camberwell collection. No wonder he was spitting nails. Well—too bad. Stamford's amour propre was the last of Edward's concerns at the moment.

He smiled at Helen.

"My uncle has been working on the pieces for some time, and I'm sure he is making excellent progress—but he is merely a, ah, gifted amateur. We have needed an expert on the premises for some time."

Helen cast a glance at the by now almost apoplectic gentleman and sent a look of apology. Dear heaven, would she be making a dreadful mistake in alienating the senior-most member of the Camberwell family?

"I would welcome your assistance, Mr. Welladay,” she concluded mendaciously. The last thing she wanted was the interference of a well-meaning but inexpert dabbler. However, this was a time for conciliation. She bestowed on him her most brilliant smile before turning back to Mr. Beresford.

"I have brought my equipment with me, but I shall have to send to London for supplies—a bleaching solution, perhaps, for damage."

"It shall be done, my d—Miss Prestwick. Just give me a list."

Silence fell on the table then, as each of the family mulled over this new turn of events. Mr. Welladay appeared ready to explode, and it was evident that neither Lady Camberwell nor her daughter was pleased, but they could think of no good reason to dispute Mr. Beresford's decision.

"Does William have any teeth?” Artemis asked abruptly. “I couldn't tell when we were upstairs."

Helen laughed, relieved at the change of topic. “Yes, he has four now, and another two ready to sprout."

The dowager returned to the subject she had been pursuing earlier. “Lady Castlering had occasion to visit Portugal a few years ago, shortly after Wellington had secured the country. She reported meeting Christopher's commanding officer, Colonel Foster, I believe his name was. You say that your father and the colonel were friends at one time?” She bent a dubious stare on Helen.

Helen's heart drummed unpleasantly, but she replied calmly. “Oh, yes. I recall Lady Castlering quite well. She dined with us a few times.” Helen noted with some satisfaction Lady Camberwell's expression of surprise. “And yes, the colonel and my father were very good friends, until— oh, about two years ago—they quarreled and have not spoken since.” She twisted abruptly in her chair. “Oh, my, is that a Constable? I am pleased at the opportunity to view his work, for I have had little opportunity to do so on the Continent. Do—?"

"What was the quarrel about?” asked Lady Camberwell, undeterred.

Helen curled fingers into her damp palms. “They—they disagreed about a painting in the colonel's possession."

Across the table, Edward glanced at Miss Prestwick in some curiosity. To be sure, the disagreement between her father and an old friend must have been painful for her, but her distress seemed out of proportion to Aunt Emily's question. He felt unexpectedly protective toward her and knew an immediate urge to dissipate her unhappiness.

Really, he admonished himself the next moment. He must stop behaving like a fatuous schoolboy with a crush on the vicar's wife. Miss Prestwick was a lovely, eminently desirable woman, with an open, intelligent countenance. That did not necessarily mean she was being truthful in her dealings with him, no matter how much he wished to believe so. Still ...

He spooned up the last of his lemon curd and, seeing that the others had finished their meal as well, rose from his chair. He turned to Miss Prestwick. “Perhaps this would be a good time for a tour of the house. It's rather large and sprawling. If you are not to get lost every time you set out from your bedchamber, you must be provided with an orientation."

"Oh! I had planned to return to William's chambers. But—yes, I would enjoy seeing the house. As would Barney, I'm sure.” She gestured to Miss Barnstaple, who nodded silently.

"Yes, of course.” Edward felt himself flushing. “I meant Miss Barnstaple, too—of course."

Their exit from the room was, however, prevented by the approach of Mr. Welladay. He was breathing rather heavily. “Ned,” he said curtly. “Might I have a word with you before you set off on your travels? In your study,” he added as Edward made as though to step away from the ladies.

Sensing the subject of his uncle's perturbation, he sighed. To Miss Prestwick, he said, “Would you mind waiting for me? I shan't be a moment. While you're in the room, perhaps you would like to examine our collection of Roman coins—in this case over here. They were turned up some years ago in a secluded area of the estate."

In his study, Edward turned to face his uncle but did not so much as have a chance to initiate a question.

"My God, Ned! Have you completely parted company with your mind?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"First of all, to invite that—that cockatrice into our— your—home.” Edward felt a fire build beneath his collar, but he forced himself to remain calm. Stanford continued, his hands nailing the air. “And then to invite her to run tame among the family treasures! Why don't you just pack up the valuables and hand them to her? Include the silver as well! Good God!” he said again. “You have been completely bamboozled by a fairly attractive face—"